


Roll The Dice

by fuwa (charmyeols)



Category: Our Life: Beginnings & Always (Visual Novel)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Dating, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Growing Up, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Multi, Neighbors, Reader's gender is not specified, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmyeols/pseuds/fuwa
Summary: “I hear the neighbours have a son - he's eight too, like you. Why don’t you go and see what he’s up to - maybe you two could be friends!”AKA: the 5-or-so times you and Baxter invited each other on a "date", and the one time it wasn't in scare quotes.
Relationships: Baxter Ward/Reader, Main Character | Jamie Last (Our Life)/Baxter Ward
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Roll The Dice

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to everyone who left a kudos or comment on my [ last fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27960461) \- it means a lot! i hope you enjoy this one too :)

“I hear the neighbours have a son - he’s eight too, like you. Why don’t you go and see what he’s up to - maybe you two could be friends!”

With nothing else to do, you’re content to follow orders for now, side-stepping past a chaotic array of moving boxes and haphazardly-angled furniture to reach the front door. It takes a moment of fumbling with the latch before you’re able to unlock it, stepping out of an unfamiliar house into an even more unfamiliar street.

Once you’re out on the step of the porch, you take a moment to observe your surroundings. On the left, your front garden is mostly bare, but still homelike, with a white picket fence squaring it off and small patches of daisies sprouting around the edges. There’s a concrete drive, smooth and uninterrupted between your front garden and your neighbours’ to the right, whose house you tentatively begin to approach.

As you get closer to the door, you stop in your tracks once a head snaps up at the sound of your footsteps. Dark brown eyes, framed by dark lashes, blink up at you curiously from under a soft mop of black hair. You pause, taking him in as he looks over at you from where he’s leaning back on the heels of his hands across the step of his own porch. His skin is pale and unblemished, though you notice a tiny dark spot - a mole, maybe? - on his neck just above the collar of his navy-blue polo shirt, which is itself tucked neatly into a pair of black cargo shorts. He stops scuffing the edge of one of his shoes against the wall around the step, and gets to his feet in one swift (and frankly, rather impressive) motion - then, he extends a hand to you.

“You must be the new neighbour. I’m Baxter. It’s nice to meet you.”

Surprised by his directness, you scramble to offer up your own name, to which his lips curve upwards, as do the corners of his eyes. Once it occurs to you that his hand is still outstretched between the two of you, you grasp it firmly with your own clammy one - though you’re unsure of what to do now that your hands are intertwined. Thankfully, he takes the lead and shakes your hand up and down in an odd gesture you’ve never experienced before, then lets your hand go. You stare at it for a moment before returning it to your side, wiping the sweat from your palm on the side of your trousers.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you make sure to tack on after a brief, though edging-on-awkward, silence.

He then tilts his head, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he chews on his bottom lip, eyebrows creased. After a moment, he straightens up and shifts his weight to one leg, placing his hands on his hips. You would feel intimidated by this stance, and the gleam in his eyes, if it wasn’t for the bright, toothy grin he was aiming directly at you.

“I’ll show you around! Let’s go to the shops first.”

You take the cotton lining of your pockets into your fists and pull them outwards, lips curling downwards into a frown. “But I don’t have any money...”

“Who said you’ll be paying?”

* * *

“I hope you didn’t spend too much on this!”

It’s clear that the generosity of his formative years has continued with no sign of stopping, when for your thirteenth birthday he gets you your first ever set of oil paints. You admire the box, mahogany wood with brass hardware, before setting it with the utmost care on the table, beside the ‘Happy Birthday’ card he’d also given you. It’s purple and glittery, with the words in elegant silver cursive looping across the top.

“Not any more than I owe you for five years of putting up with me.”

You nudge him on the arm, pouting, before tilting your forehead down to rest it on his shoulder. “Hey, you don’t owe me anything. Actually, maybe it’s the other way around.”

“Never.” He grins, patting your back, and as you move away, you make a mental note to outdo him on his birthday.

“Besides, I thought they might come in useful - don’t you have an exhibition next week?”

“Yeah, Thursday. Are you still coming?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

\---

He keeps his word, and you meet him in the central room of the building where you’d been going to extracurricular art classes for almost as long as you’d been in the neighbourhood. Once your parents had heard of Baxter’s interest in dance, they’d been keen to encourage you to pursue your own hobby, which happened to be art.

After your usual greeting hug, he steps back and smiles at you. “Did you end up putting those paints to good use?”

“Of course. My work’s on the back wall, though, so you’re gonna have to stay in suspense for a bit longer.”

He tucks one hand into the pocket of his jeans, bringing the other up to stroke his chin as he surveys the room. “Oh? I’ll look forward to it, then. Now, where should we start?”

“How about over here?” You suggest, stepping over to the left wall. Your art class was small and so was the room, so there was enough space on each wall for all of the drawings, paintings and photographs you and your classmates had produced. The middle of the room is mostly empty aside from a range of sculptures that brighten it up - from where you’re standing, you can see some vegetables and a wheelbarrow sculpted out of plaster, a clay bust of an old man, and a life-sized young tree made entirely out of wire. You hadn’t seen any of them before, so you assume they must be the craftsmanship of the older classes.

Once your brief survey of the centre of the room is complete, you turn back to the series of canvases closest to you. It’s a triptych of three faces, two men and one woman, each facing a different direction. The bold, bright background colours contrast with the muted tones of the people, and the broad vertical brushstrokes give the impression of a surreal, liquid texture.

Beside that canvas, in the middle of the left wall, is a series of glossy black-and-white photographs mounted in pairs from top to bottom, drawing comparisons between the natural world and the human body. Interested, you take a moment to read the description on the placard beside it, before moving to the right side of the wall.

The final piece on this wall is a huge rectangular canvas which would probably be taller than you if it was turned to stand on its shorter edge. As it is, it’s a sprawling, textured work of paper marbling, with a light blue base, thin red tendrils swirling across the canvas, and yellow blotches interspersing the elegant, though irregular, design. The vibrant primary colours call to mind the feathers of a tropical bird.

“Oh, the next one’s mine.”

Sure enough, the leftmost painting on the back wall is yours. It’s a large oil painting of a woman’s face, with thick, disjointed brushstrokes and the scrawl of your handwriting in places, and the mouth broken down into an anatomical sketch rather than just the external likeness. You had known that you wouldn’t have time to finish a whole portrait after receiving the paints only a week ago, but that didn’t stop you from trying. Even though the painting is technically missing parts, you think it adds to the style, and in some ways, the mouth and the handwriting pull everything together to make it seem complete.

“Wow! Remember me when you’re doing exhibitions around the country, will you? This is incredible.” You can tell he’s being genuine by the way his eyebrows are raised, his eyes widened as he tries to take in all the aspects of your painting.

You try to play it down, aware of the flush that’s starting to rise to your cheeks at his attention. “Come on, it’s nothing special. It’s not even finished.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “Hey, you should be proud. I am, for one, since now I know that gift was put to good use.”

You neglect to tell him that perhaps the painting turned out better than expected because you wanted to make sure his gift wasn’t wasted on something mediocre.

“Thanks, Baxter. For the paints, and, just… Being here. As always.”

He furrows his brows. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” Then his familiar grin returns, “Your painting’s going to be tough to beat, but let’s look at the others. Then, how about lunch?”

\---

As it turns out, you do manage to outdo him on his fourteenth birthday, if you're allowed to say so yourself.

He sits down on the sofa of his living room, sets the box on the coffee table and opens it with delicate hands, brushing past the white tissue paper to reveal planes of leather beneath. He hooks his hand underneath them and pulls them out, revealing the gift to be a pair of dance shoes, which he then places beside the box so he can admire them fully, rotating them carefully with his index and thumb.

He leans back then, eyes wide, and turns to you. Before you can even ask him what he thinks, he loops his arms around you, bringing you to his chest in a tight hug. It’s comforting, and it touches you to see his open appreciation of your gift. As a bonus, he smells pretty nice, and he’s soft in exactly the right places, and all in all you don’t think you want to leave.

When he pulls back again, he grins at you before casting his gaze back over to the shoes. “How did you know I wanted these?”

“A little bird may have told me.”

He narrows his eyes, looking at you out of the corner of his eye as he lifts one shoe to inspect its slight heel. “And you were telling me you hoped those oil paints didn’t cost me much.”

“Hey, it wasn’t all me. I had a little help.” You rub the back of your neck, then adjust your position on the sofa, tucking your knees up to your chest.

He hums to himself, already undoing the laces on one of the shoes. “I’ll wear them to the recital on Friday.”

“You will?”

“Of course!” He tilts his head, smiling coyly at you. “And will you be there to see it?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

\---

The way the dance studio is decorated when you arrive strikes you as something right up Baxter’s alley - it’s glamorous, but not overdone. The entire room is bathed in a dramatic dark blue light, though the hardwood dancefloor is spotlit, and surrounded by an organised rectangle of foldable chairs arranged in three rows. Since you’d come early to allow Baxter the extra time to prepare, you, your family, and his parents are all able to snag front-row seats next to each other.

You admire the technique of the first few performers, who all seem to be younger than you. Once you notice them getting closer to your age, you start to fidget with anticipation as you expect Baxter’s name to be the next one called.

Sure enough, two couples later, he’s on, holding the hand of a pretty blonde girl whose cherubic looks contrast sharply with her focused, stern expression as she prepares to begin the dance.

Moments later, it begins, and you feel a swell of pride in your chest as you watch him dance. It’s methodical and yet expressive, the perfect art form for someone like him, and he does it so well. Or at least, you think he’s doing well, based on your rudimentary knowledge of ballroom dance and your assessment that if it looks nice aesthetically, it must be good. Speaking of which, even the outfits are pleasing to the eye - the girl’s lilac dress is especially pretty, both the colour and the way all its embroidered gems capture the light. You can’t help but wonder how you would look in it.

But as much as you like her dress, your attention never stays on it for long. Something about Baxter himself grabs your attention and refuses to let it go easily - you try to convince yourself that it’s just because it’s him you’re there to see, and not because of the sleek black outfit that suits him a little too well, or the new shoes you’re delighted to see on him, or the boyish, charming smile he flashes to the audience every time he turns a certain way.

When their performance draws to a close you make sure to clap with extra enthusiasm, and your stomach flips weirdly when you notice Baxter’s dark eyes flick over to you, his mouth curving into an even broader smile.

“Did those shoes work for you?” you ask him once the recital has drawn to a close, and the guests are beginning to disperse from the hall. Your parents and Baxter’s are engaged in a lively conversation just beside the exit, while the two of you stand nearby, but at a short distance away.

“I thought you’d be able to tell.” He grins, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

You offer him a soft, knowing smile, before hoisting your backpack up from where you’d placed it at your feet. He raises a brow at you as you start to unzip it, and you clarify, “I bought you an extra present.”

He responds with an exaggerated gasp. “You’re spoiling me here. Remind me to pay next time we get lunch together.”

You roll your eyes at that. “You always pay anyway, even when I tell you not to-- There it is.” After having rummaged around in your bag for a few moments, you locate the item in question, holding it out to him.

“It’s fake, because I didn’t want it to get damaged or wilt before I could give it to you.”

His gaze softens, looking down at the plastic red rose, then back up at you, with affection. He strokes a petal with his thumb, before taking the stem between his fingers and plucking it from your grasp.

“My first flower after a performance. I’m honoured. I’ll certainly treasure it.”

“It wasn’t any trouble. I like watching you perform.”

He twirls the rose around with his fingertips for a moment, before smiling in a way that can only mean he’s up to something. Seconds later, you see and feel the stem of the rose being tucked in behind your ear.

You must look stunned, because the next thing you know he’s poking your cheek and laughing good-naturedly. “It matches the colour of your face right now. In fact, it suits you so well that I’ll even let you keep it until we get home.”

“How generous of you,” you manage to quip, recovering from your momentary embarrassment.

“Only for you.”

* * *

  
  
  


“You’re an artist, I trust you.”

“An artist, not a hairdresser. Don’t blame me if this doesn’t turn out right.”

You finish mixing the dye in the plastic container, then raise the brush to the first exposed section of his hair. The two of you had taken care to tie up and cover the remaining black strands, while the rest of his visible hair had gone a rusty brown from the bleach you’d used on it earlier. He looks almost comical like this, standing barefoot in your bathtub in a pair of old black swimming shorts and one of your oversized, paint-stained t-shirts, craning his neck down so you can reach all the parts of his scalp.

“You know, if I mess this up, you only have one week before prom to get it re-done at a salon. Which you should’ve done in the first place, might I add.”

“That’s plenty of time,” he grins, totally unfazed. The early-morning light streaming in through the bathroom window catches the glint in his eyes. “Which reminds me - I know you haven’t bought an outfit yet, so why don’t you come with me later today? We could even match.”

You lean back from where you’ve just finished applying the dye to the second section of his head, and stare at him. “Is that your way of asking me to be your date?”

His easy expression doesn’t falter. “Well, why not? Neither of us are seeing someone, and you’re my best friend.”

You hop into the bathtub and stand behind him to reach the two back sections of hair, curling your toes as you feel the porcelain cool your feet. “Direct, as always. Sure, I’ll be your date.” The words feel foreign coming from your mouth. You wonder if the phrase ‘best friend’ had given him a similarly strange aftertaste.

The worst thing about this new proposition is how easy it sounds. It’s as if, now that his offer is in your hands, you could never imagine accepting someone else’s.

“Glad to hear it.”

Once you’re finally done with your brief stint as a hair colourist, you step back onto the wooden bathroom floor, checking over each part of Baxter’s hair one last time before setting a thirty-minute timer on your phone. You then kneel down, arms crossed over the lip of the tub, while he sits inside it, legs outstretched to the side and body turned to face you.

A comfortable silence ensues, interspersed with idle chit-chat about prom, and your families, and the future. It’s all very peaceful - until all of your earlier thoughts resurface and crystallise into something sharp and dangerous once the timer sounds, which he takes as a signal to stand up and tug off his shirt. You’d seen him shirtless before, but not often, and for some reason you can’t help but be drawn to the subtle flex of his muscles as he reaches for the shower head before handing it to you, seemingly oblivious to your admiration of his form. His shoulders are broad, balanced out by a trim, neat waist, slender hips, and the beginnings of firm abdominal muscles outlined underneath the smooth skin of his torso.

He’d always been handsome - you’d known that for years. But - perhaps it’s the earlier invitation to prom, or the lighting, or the way his gaze is focused directly on you once he kneels down at the edge of the tub - whatever it is, things feel somehow different this time. It only gets worse once you’ve finished washing the dye out, and have to stare at him as his new hair separates into damp tendrils and drips water down his face and between his collarbones in a way that would look hilarious on anyone else - but for some reason, on him, it doesn’t. It’s impossibly attractive, and you feel like you’re the one who needs to step into the shower after that realisation.

This was Baxter you were thinking about - a fountain of compliments and flirtatious quips and almost saccharine charm. Baxter, who spent money like it was water, and was so perceptive, and yet so dense that he somehow didn't know that you were hopelessly ensnared by that same charm. To his credit, however, you hadn't even known that about yourself until just a few moments ago.

You hand him a towel and desperately attempt to dismiss your sudden realisation as nothing more than meaningless teenage attraction. You hope your face isn’t as red as it feels.

Once he’s dried himself off enough to ensure he won’t drip water all the way down your hallway, you lead him into your bedroom, before stepping back outside to let him change into the dry pair of clothes he’d come in. You find yourself suddenly, achingly aware of the fact that the only things separating you from the form you’d been partially admiring earlier were your bedroom door and your increasingly faltering self-control.

He calls out to you once he’s done, and you come back in just as he’s flicking on the hairdryer placed on the vanity. As he runs his fingers through his hair, styling it in front of the mirror as he dries it off, you start to congratulate yourself on a job well done. The silver looks really good on him. _Too_ good, maybe.

“It looks great!” You feign a casual tone as soon as he’s switched off the dryer, moving towards him to take a closer look.

He grins back at you. “What did I tell you? I knew I could trust you.”

Smiling, you take some strands between your fingers to inspect the colour more closely, trying not to pay too much mind to how close you’re standing to each other. “Yeah, yeah. Right as always. Now we just have to find you an outfit to match.”

\---

“Oh my, what a handsome young man! A charming couple, the two of you are.”

In the past, you had always jumped to correct strangers’ and friends’ misconceptions regarding your relationship status, but this time, you’re not sure what compels you to go along with it. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing more than the earnest way the elderly owner of the little boutique looks at you as she says it, wrinkled hands with ringed fingers coming to clasp over yours.

“He is handsome, isn’t he? I feel very lucky.”

The lady coos at you, smiling in that warm, genuine way many old ladies do, and turns to look back at Baxter. You follow her gaze once more, giving his outfit another once-over - it’s a classic black suit with a white button-up shirt underneath, all form-fitting and sleek, with a silver-grey tie to match his hair. Looking back up at his face, you notice him arching an eyebrow at you, and you realise with some small amount of apprehension that he must have noticed your uncharacteristic response.

The lady claps her hands together then, getting to her feet and shuffling to a rack beside the changing rooms. Where she and Baxter are, there are two cubicles covered with burgundy curtains, a large potted plant in the corner, and colourful racks of various formalwear marked with handwritten price tags. You’re seated on a nearby ottoman, likely intended for trying on shoes. All of the other walls are taken up with more racks, apart from the one to your left, where the cash register is. Although the shop is small, it’s thankfully air-conditioned, and doesn’t have any other customers at this time of day.

Just as you’ve completed your observation, the shop owner returns to your side holding up two dresses - one a glittery silver colour, a slightly darker shade than Baxter’s tie, and the other black. The silver one is off-the-shoulder, with long sleeves and a mermaid cut, pinching inwards at the waist and the knees and flaring out at the hips and the ends. The black is less eye-catching but draws attention in its own way, with a V-neck, a fitted waist, and a slit up to just above the knee on one side of the skirt.

“How about these two, dear? I think both would look lovely on you, though perhaps it’s better your boyfriend helps you decide.”

You rise from your seat and take both racks from her with care, smiling. “These look perfect. I’ll try on both, if that’s alright?”

“Of course!” She settles back down on the ottoman as you make your way over to the unoccupied changing room, meeting Baxter’s confused blink with a mischievous grin before disappearing into the cubicle.

You pull the curtain back around three minutes later, but not before carefully examining yourself in the changing room mirror. The silver dress is pretty, especially with the way it glitters in the light, but it’s perhaps a little too bold for your tastes - however, you do like how the cut accentuates your collarbones and sculpts your figure.

Judging by the glint in his eyes as you make eye contact with him, Baxter has a compliment along the same lines on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, that’s wonderful - don’t you think?” The lady places one of her hands on Baxter’s knee, looking to him for confirmation.

He grins at her, clearly charmed by her enthusiasm, then looks back at you.

“I agree. Very… shapely.” Your face heats at that. “However,” you get the sense he’s about to address you directly, “I get the impression that you’re not totally comfortable in it.”

“Well, what a thoughtful boy! You must have been dating for quite some time for him to be able to read you like that.”

He replies before you can, mouth curling into a barely noticeable smirk as his gaze meets yours. “You could say that.”

With that, you pull the curtain over the entrance to the cubicle again, shedding the silver dress to swap it for the black. The black is more flowy and comfortable, but still fitted and flattering where it needs to be - around not just your neck and shoulders, but also your legs, owing to the thin slit in the fabric which stops at just about an acceptable height. 

You assume that Baxter is a fan as soon as you step out again, not sure what to make of the fact that he’s clearly having trouble drawing his eyes upwards from your exposed leg. The attention is flattering, but unfamiliar coming from him. Perhaps that makes it even more flattering.

“I take it you’re a fan of the… leg part.”

He laughs, crossing one of his legs over the other and leaning back on the heels of his palms. “How could you tell? But really, it suits you. It looks more comfortable, and so do you.”

“That’s settled then!” The owner gets up again with much more energy than you’d expect from a woman her age, heading over to the counter and tapping buttons on a clunky, yellowing cash register. “I’ll ring up the prices for your boyfriend’s suit now, and I can do yours as soon as you’re ready to pay.”

Once you’ve changed, you make your way over to the desk, flipping open your wallet to retrieve your card. As the lady’s ringing up your order, you consider the other elements of your outfit. Black was a versatile colour - you were sure you’d be able to find a pair of shoes and a bag in a cupboard somewhere. All you really know for sure is that, for some odd reason, you can’t wait for Baxter to see you in that dress again.

\---

Luckily, you don't have to wait too long. The week breezes past, and before you know it, you're standing just outside the event hall as he pins a silver corsage to your chest with his clever hands. You try not to make your appreciation of them too obvious.

“There. You look lovely.”

“Oh… thanks.” You avert your gaze - you thought you were used to his frequent compliments by now, having been on the receiving end of them for ten years - but instead of reacting with your usual witty quip or parry, you can’t help but feel unusually bashful. After a short pause, you get back to him with a simple “You’re not so bad yourself”.

He tilts his head, searching your face for anything which would explain your reaction, but shakes his head and straightens up after a few moments. “Why, thank you. Now, should we go in?”

Once you’re inside, you spend a minute taking everything in. The room is spacious and well-lit, with neatly-decorated circular tables in a zigzag along one side of the room, and a long stretch of dancefloor on the other. The DJ is next to the back wall, tapping away at his phone as a smooth, instrumental jazz tune flows through the speakers in front of him - you imagine he’d been instructed not to play anything much until everyone’s arrived and settled in. Finally, there’s a refreshment table in the front corner of the room, nearest to you, which already seems to be a hit with many of your classmates.

Baxter bends down to speak into your ear, presumably to ensure you’ll hear him over the vibrant chatter of the groups of people already congregating around different sections of the room. “Want to dance?”

“Already?” You raise a brow at him, leaning onto one leg and crossing your arms in a stance you’re sure you picked up from him somewhere along the line. “We just arrived.”

“Have you forgotten what happened last time we came to an event like this? I was almost fully booked the whole night.”

You hadn’t forgotten - he was known throughout your cohort for his excellent dancing ability, and naturally everyone who had wanted to dance at the previous event - you think it had been a Christmas party - wanted to dance with him. And that meant _everyone_.

“Okay, I’ll bite. You know I can’t dance, though.”

“So you’re telling me that after all these years of coming to my recitals and competitions, you haven’t picked up anything at all?”

“Well, I’m always focused on you, not your partner.”

His lips form a perfect ‘o’ shape upon hearing that, and you have to resist the urge to rub the back of your neck in a nervous gesture. Before you can, he takes one of your hands in his, placing it on his shoulder, before interlocking the fingers of his free hand with yours.

“I didn’t know that. I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.”

He grins, leading you easily into something slow and casual. You suddenly find yourself wondering about things you hadn’t even bothered with in the past - do you look nice this close up? Can he tell how nervous you are? Has he noticed your struggle to maintain eye contact?

Before you know it, the dance is over. You step in for a hug, and when you part he tucks some strands of hair behind your ear, smiling affectionately.

“Thanks for dancing with me. Do you know how much that would cost you on a normal day?”

You stick your tongue out at him, considering how to respond to his joke, when someone else interjects.

“Hey, Bax, over here!”

At the call of his name, he pivots to the left to find a small group waving him over from a short distance away.

“Oh, they’re from theatre. You can join me, or I’ll be right over there if you want something, alright?”

You smile and nod, taking the opportunity to strike up a conversation with some of your own friends. It’s going perfectly well until you spot, from the table half of the room, a girl you don’t recognise, staring appraisingly at you. Nothing in particular about her looks ‘off’, but the fact is that you don’t know her, and the intensity of her gaze as it roves your body makes your skin prickle - even if all she’s doing is looking.

Tearing your gaze away from her, you make your way back over to where you’d last seen your closest friend.

“Baxter?” He pulls away from his conversation as soon as he hears you, forehead creased with worry. All at once, he’s in front of you, effectively blocking the line of sight between you and where the girl had been.

“Is something wrong?” One of his hands comes to rest on your upper arm, while yours naturally move to press flat against the lapels of his blazer.

“I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.”

“Hmm.” He turns around, expression neutral as he looks for the person in question, before returning his attention to you. His lips twitch up into a smile, though his brows stay a touch furrowed. “She might have good taste, but she could stand to be more tactful about it. Either way, she’s not looking anymore.”

“Thanks - I appreciate it.”

His expression smooths out after that, eyes crinkling as he smiles more fully. “Why don’t you stay with me for a bit? I’ll introduce you,” he cocks his head over to the group he’d been standing with before, some of whom smile politely at you as you follow his gaze.

“Okay. But… will you hold my hand?” Your voice is small as you become increasingly aware of the fact that you might be coming across to him as an anxious, petty child.

To your surprise, he laughs, soft and carefree. “Of course. In fact, I can do you one better.”

“Oh?”

You hope he doesn’t notice the way you tremble as he trails his hand down your arm to settle on your waist. It’s warm and secure, and you can just about feel the added weight of his rings through the fabric of your dress.

“Shall we?”

* * *

  
  
  


**Baxter** [12:31] : Are you still coming with me tonight?

 **You** [12:31] : Of course! Are you still going to pick me up from work?

 **Baxter** [12:32] : Absolutely :) I should be there around 3:30.

It’s a typical Friday afternoon, so half-past three rolls around in what feels like no time at all once you’ve finished serving the regulars, cleaning the tables and the floor, and watering the array of leafy plants and succulents lined up along the counter. You’d been working in this café part-time for two years, ever since you’d graduated from college - and although it wouldn’t afford you anything lavish, it was nice to have a bit of extra money in your pocket each week as you considered your future career options.

When the bell rings and you move to approach the door, something warm and weighty settles in your chest at the sight of Baxter standing there, ruffling his hair with a hand and smiling at you warmly. As much as you’d love to embrace him, you have to maintain some sort of professionalism, especially since your manager is also manning the counter right beside you. You slip a faux leather-bound menu out of the rack next to the cash register, then gesture for him to follow you to a two-seater table in the corner of the room. The only indication that you know him at all is the cheeky smile you offer him as he pulls his chair out to sit down.

“Good afternoon, sir!”

As you slide the menu across the table to him, you notice that both his eyebrows are raised as he looks at you - and when he abruptly turns his gaze down to look at the menu, you notice a lovely pink shade has bloomed across his cheeks. Part of you wants to see how far you can push this new discovery.

“Here’s a menu for you - just let me know when you’re ready to order… _Sir_.”

Now he knows you’ve cottoned on, but his reaction isn’t the same a second time. Instead, he just narrows his eyes, the corner of his lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile.

“I’ll have a black coffee, two sugars, please, darling.” He emphasises the last word just enough for you to catch its teasing edge, and you’re not sure how to feel now that he’s playing you at your own game. You don’t want to read too much into it, but something about it feels like more than just lighthearted teasing between best friends.

Especially now that you’re wondering where else he likes to be called ‘sir’.

Shaking your head wildly to dismiss that thought, and ignoring the pointed, amused look coming from Baxter’s direction, you manage to stammer out an “Of course,” before walking dazedly over to the coffee machine behind the counter.

One black coffee, a slice of tiramisu, and half an hour later, it’s almost time to close up. You give all the surfaces a final pass with the cleaning cloth, and then signal to your manager that you’re about to head into the back to pack up and change, while she rounds up the last of the customers.

You return a few minutes later to find her sitting at one of the now-empty tables, twirling the key to the café around her index finger. Once she notices your presence, she gets up, tucking the chair in behind her and falling into step beside you as you make your way towards the entrance.

“Good work today! Your boyfriend even left you a pretty big tip. And judging by your outfit, you’re going somewhere after this?” She pauses to look you up and down, admiring your suit as she holds the door open for you. It toes the line between formal and casual, a neat little two-piece in dark grey, the fitted blazer buttoned up over a black turtleneck underneath.

You thank her, smiling as you step out into the open air, and decide not to correct her when she tells you to “Enjoy your date!”.

\---

You find your reaction to Baxter’s performance at twenty-three years of age to be much the same as when you’d watched him dance at the age of thirteen. One of the only differences between then and now is that he dances with more finesse this time, more perfect form and poise, which you can’t help but admire from your seat in the front row. Another difference is that, as you note the curl of his hand around his partner’s waist, you can more easily identify the feeling that tugs in your gut as jealousy.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling when it comes to you and him, and one which hints at something you’re not sure you want to think about right now.

However, you can’t help but get lost in thought after his performance, and before you know it the recital is over. The afterparty is just about to kick off, though, so you make your way over to the bar and scan the room for any of Baxter’s friends who you may have met before. It’s a stroke of luck that you manage to locate a familiar face also sitting at the bar, another dancer whose name you can’t quite recall, but who should provide you the perfect distraction. With any luck, you won’t have to think about Baxter himself, who you’d noticed standing by the back windows next to two of his colleagues, who are both incredibly beautiful, and both very much out of your league (though firmly within his).

“Well _hello_ there. It’s been a while,” he greets with a polite smile as you sit down on the stool beside him, waving over the bartender for your first drink of the night.

As one drink turns into two, and two into three, you figure it’s time to turn on the charm a little. Damon, you’ve since learnt his name is, is more than happy to play along, perfectly responsive and more your type than you’d care to admit. However, you can’t help but notice (or perhaps imagine) that the words are clumsy in his mouth, the delivery all wrong because it’s not _Baxter_. 

Since when had you wanted Baxter to flirt with you?

Instead of trying to come up with an answer, you snap out of your momentary reverie, plastering on a sweet smile.

“Sorry about that. Where were we… Oh, you were going to give me your number, weren’t you?”

“Was I, now?” Damon tosses his head to the side and laughs, blue eyes glittering underneath the lights of the bar.

“I don’t know,” you nudge his shin with the side of your foot, resisting the urge to cast your gaze to the back of the room. “You tell me.”

\---

“What happened to Damon? I thought you’d be going home with him.”

“You, of all people, should know I don’t sleep with someone before at least one proper date.”

“Point taken and duly noted.”

(Noted? What was that supposed to mean?)

As Baxter helps you up from the barstool, you become acutely aware of the fact that you may have drunk just a little too much. The room isn’t quite spinning, but it’s certainly tilted on its axis enough degrees that every movement you make is uncoordinated and needlessly challenging. Once he’s helped you out of the building and into his car, you can’t help but ask a question of your own.

“What about that couple _you_ were talking to the whole night?”

He stares at you for a moment, before breaking into a delighted laugh. “They’re married. To each other, actually. Is that why you didn’t come over to talk to me?”

“Maybe…”

He ruffles your hair and leans over the centre console to kiss your forehead, and you consider that perhaps he’s more drunk than you’d thought, too. Though, you don’t recall ever seeing him near the bar...

“They even asked me about you. Though you looked like you were having the time of your life at the bar-” he flashes you a mischievous grin - “so I didn’t come to you either.”

“So what you’re saying is... we’re both idiots.”

“Hey now,” his mouth curls upwards, while his eyebrows crease down to form that mock-appalled, teasing, effortlessly attractive expression that sends heat straight down to between your hips. You can’t even be bothered to deny it to yourself this time, but you’re not looking forward to tomorrow morning, when you’ll most likely have to rifle through all these criminal thoughts like a detective examining an evidence board.

“How am I an ‘idiot’ for playing wingman? It may have been indirect, but I think my contribution was valuable in any case. And this is the thanks I get,” he chuckles as he pulls the car out of the parking bay and starts the journey home.

“Who said I need a wingman?” You can feel yourself slurring your words a touch too much, and he laughs at you good-naturedly without taking his eyes off the road.

“That’s not what you were saying back in college.”

“College was different! You wouldn’t know, you’ve never had trouble with that kind of thing.”

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow, and you have enough presence of mind to register that this expression is one of genuine surprise. Once he’s sure the road is clear, he meets your gaze for a second to ask, “How would you know that?”, before looking forwards again.

“I don’t. I just… assumed.” You were both aware that the other had a reasonably active sex life, but the specifics were never a point of discussion between you.

Seemingly lost in thought, he hums to himself at your response, but offers no confirmation or denial.

The drive is continued in silence, neither of you having turned the radio on for fear of aggravating the imminent headache you can feel starting to pulse outwards from the front of your skull. You close your eyes in an effort to mitigate the pain, and you think you must have fallen asleep at some point, because when you open your eyes again, Baxter’s just pulled into the driveway of his house.

Once the two of you have exited the car, he comes around to your side and puts a hand on the small of your back to guide you to your front door.

“Keys?”

“Left pocket.”

He fishes them out of your blazer easily, but before unlocking the door, he leans against it, arms crossed. “Your parents are out of town this week, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me come home with you. I know you’re next door to me, but I can’t leave you home alone in this state in good conscience.”

You consider your excuses - “My parents are only out of town until tomorrow night, I’ll be fine,” and “I’m not that drunk,” and “I can take care of myself,” - but the more you think about them, the more you find you don’t even want to make one.

“Sure.”

He breathes out a sigh, and you can’t tell if his smile is more charming or relieved. “Excellent. In that case, I’ll go and change at my place, and then I’ll come straight back.” The corner of his lips curls up into a smirk as he unlocks your door and pockets the keys. “Try not to miss me too much.”

\---

By the time you’ve dragged yourself from the hallway to your bedroom, tipsy and tired are starting to war with each other in your head, and you want nothing more than to just get into your sleepwear and collapse face-down onto the mattress. You sling your blazer over the chair in front of the vanity, and then pull at the collar of your turtleneck until you manage to get it over your head and somewhere onto the floor.

You only dimly register that Baxter is standing in the open doorway once you take a moment to sit on the bed and contemplate your next task.

“Oh, you’re back already. Just in time.”

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and trying his best not to let his gaze slip down to anywhere below your collarbones. “In time for what?”

“Undress me.” Perhaps his direct nature has started to rub off on you.

He quirks an eyebrow, eyes widening by a fraction, but approaches without further comment, flicking on the bedside lamp just beside you. “That’s not the tone people normally use when they ask me that.”

You roll your eyes and try to stamp out any thoughts that sentence might have ignited in your head before you can figuratively catch fire.

“Be quiet and just help me get out of these pants,” you whine, lifting your hips off the bed. He chuckles and pops the button easily with just one hand, leading you onto another dangerous train of thought about how many times he’s done that before. Having his fingers hooked into the waistband of your trousers also affected you much more than you’d like to admit.

“Tsk tsk. Patience is a virtue, you know. Happy now?” He grins, then ruffles your hair and steps back as you move to get up. The trousers fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, and his gaze falters for the first time, trailing down your legs from your hips to your shins before he hastily returns it to meet yours.

“Very. Also,” you can feel your brain-to-mouth filter failing as you start to drawl out your next sentence, hoping you won’t wake up and regret it tomorrow. If it lands badly, you can just blame it on the drink… Probably.

“You’re way too handsome for your own good. Especially when you’re blushing like that.”

“Handsome?” He turns away from you then, expression unreadable in the low light as he rifles through the top drawer of your dresser, taking out a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. “You’re definitely a flirtatious drunk.” His mouth curves into an affectionate smile as he hands you the clothes, which you pull on as he makes his way back to the doorway.

“You can tell me how ‘handsome’ I am when you mean it, alright? That is, if you even remember this discussion tomorrow.”

“I’m not that drunk. And… I always mean it.”

He looks at you then, really _looks_ , in a way that seems to peel back all your layers and leave you feeling more naked and vulnerable than two minutes ago, when you’d actually been sitting around in nothing but your underwear.

He then tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes as he smiles softly at you. You can feel something between the two of you shifting, and your alcohol-and-sleep-addled brain is struggling to make sense of it.

“Sleep in here tonight,” you mumble as you clamber under the sheets.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s not a good idea, and I think you know that. I’ll be on the couch - just call if you need me and I’ll be right back here.”

Now that you’re lying down, your lethargy catches up to you in a rush, and you can’t manage much more than a dissatisfied hum as you flick the light off.

“Good night, sweetheart,” is the last thing you hear before drifting off.

\---

You wake up to the sheets all twisted up at the bottom of the bed, and note with some dismay that the oncoming heat of the day is not going to do wonders for your hangover. On the bright side, though, your head isn’t pounding as much as you’d anticipated.

Also of note is the cold glass of water and blister pack of paracetamol you find on your bedside table - both of which you take full advantage of before getting on with your regular morning routine.

Once you’re satisfied that you look and feel fresh and mostly presentable, you make your way down into the kitchen, empty glass in hand. Baxter is leaning against the counter beside the sink, looking sympathetic as he greets you.

“How are you feeling?”

“Could be better, but I don’t feel as bad as I expected,” you offer him an attempt at a bright smile as you refill your glass, then promptly down half of it before placing it back on the counter. “It’s pretty hot today, though.”

“You’re right, it is.” He looks dazed, his gaze elsewhere as he replies. You only discover that his point of interest is a stray drop of water on the corner of your bottom lip, once he drags a thumb slowly over the area to wipe it away.

Maybe it’s the midday heat or the remnants of your hangover getting to you, but stupidly, you grasp his wrist before he can pull it back, and take the tip of his thumb into your mouth up to the knuckle, letting it rest against the flat of your tongue. His expression morphs from mild confusion to one you’ve never seen on him before - his breath hitches and his lips part, pupils blown wide as his free hand grips the counter with such force that his knuckles turn white.

After a moment, you come back to your senses and loosen your grip on his wrist, dropping your hand to your side, but not your gaze. The two of you observe each other carefully, no words exchanged, seemingly waiting for the other to make the next move.

You’re the one to break the silence, doing so with an eloquently-worded question. “Wanna make out?”

He moves his hand from your jaw to your hip, expression unchanged but gaze amused. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

From the moment he leans in, it’s no holds barred. You pull him closer and box yourself in at the corner of the kitchen, totally surrounded by marble countertops behind you and Baxter in front. As soon as his lips meet yours you shudder into him, creasing up his t-shirt with the intensity of your grip on it. Everything is messy and frantic and ungraceful, not at all how it should be with him, but you don’t think you’ve ever felt this good in your life.

All too soon, however, he moves his mouth to the side, where it rests hot against your cheek as he mumbles the beginnings of a question against your skin.

“Are you sure--”

You don’t even have the patience to listen to the rest of the sentence, providing your answer by way of turning your head to the side, so your lips meet his again. While one of his hands presses into the soft flesh of your hip, just above the waistband of your shorts, the other moves to lay flat between your shoulder blades, supporting your back as your body curves into his. Your hands find their way to his hair, twisting the soft strands around your fingers, before you decide to gently drag your nails downwards along his nape and shoulders. He tenses immediately, gasping against your mouth, then pulls back to catch his breath. You raise an eyebrow at him, but think you understand; once you’ve hooked a leg around his, pulling his hips flush to yours, your assumption is proven to be correct.

He brings his lips to rest against the shell of your ear, and you naturally tuck your heated face into the crook of his neck, mouthing half-formed kisses across the juncture there as he croons under his breath:

“Let me take you on a date first.”


End file.
